Small Needs
by JuniorMintJulep
Summary: McCoy can’t save the universe. Let Kirk handle that. People need other things from him. So I thought this story was over, but there was one more little chapter hiding out in the back of my depraved mind, and I had to share. Ch. 6: Cupcake gets his due.
1. Uhura

Small Needs

By Junior Mint Julep

He didn't look up. Refused to look up. But the black boots didn't move.

There were other medics. He decided that the owner of the black boots, still safely anonymous, could damn well go find someone else. McCoy hadn't released anyone from duty yet, despite the horror and exhaustion he read in their eyes. The battle was over, Nero was dead, but the work in sickbay was just beginning to ease up as the influx of new patients began slowing to a trickle now. Most of the screaming had stopped—those who were going to make it were either in triage or out of surgery and heavily sedated; those who weren't going to make it had been made comfortable. _Comfortable._ As if that made it less heinous. He stood in a corner, out of the way of the staff—strike that, _his_ staff now—and tried to focus on the PADD in his hand, knowing that he really just needed to stop for a minute and regroup before he faced another patient.

But ignoring the boots wasn't making them go away. The owner was apparently a match for McCoy's stubbornness. He sighed to himself and spoke without looking up.

"What do you need?" The words came out more harshly than he intended, but it was too late to take them back now, and by god, if there were any day he was entitled to sound like a cantankerous bastard, today was it.

"Leo." Her voice, cool and calm as always, was soft enough to undercut the commotion and chaos surrounding them. He felt a pang of guilt as he lowered the PADD and met her gaze.

"Nyota. Are you hurt?"

She shook her head and the ponytail, still somehow perfect after a day like this, fluttered so close to his face he imagined he felt the tiny breeze it created.

"Gaila. She hasn't come back to our quarters. I was—" she faltered, and a flash of something he couldn't quite name passed over her features so quickly he almost missed it. She squared her jaw and looked him in the eye. "Have you seen her?"

He hesitated.

It was just a split second, but that was long enough. She stiffened, bracing herself, and his thoughts tumbled back to the last time he'd seen her like this, fists balled at her side, glaring at him, challenging him wordlessly to just say it and get it over with.

**************

She wouldn't go to the clinic at first. And wouldn't tell him what was wrong, either. She had cornered him as he was leaving the library, and he was so preoccupied with his forensic pathology exam tomorrow that he didn't even notice at first as she sidled up to him and matched his pace.

"I can't tell you. Not yet."

"Well, how the hell am I supposed to help you, then?" he demanded. "I'm a doctor, not a mindreader, you know. And why are you coming to me, anyway? You know Jim Kirk and I—"

"Yes," she cut in, "I know all about Jim Kirk, believe me, and how you're always together, and I won't hold that against you. In fact," she continued, even as he opened his mouth to protest, "I know you take care of him and I know you don't take any shit from him, and that tells me that maybe, just maybe, you're above his level of cretinism."

He glared at her, unsure how to respond.

"Look," she said, before he could protest again, "I need help with something." She paused, her lips pressed so tightly together they trembled, and he considered how much that admission had cost her. He knew from overheard conversations and sidelong glances that Cadet Uhura was widely respected for her ambition, admired for her intelligence, and sometimes envied for her beauty—but always from afar. Although she rarely turned down an opportunity to party, she had a reputation as a fiercely private individual who was never known to need or be needed by anyone. Her aloofness was legendary—nobody even seemed to know her first name, for god sakes.

"Uhura," he said gently, "they have your records at the clinic, and all the equipment and supplies they could need for..." he gestured uncertainly, "for whatever you might need. So follow protocol and go get proper treatment. Or consultation. Or whatever," he finished lamely.

She grabbed his arm so abruptly he nearly stumbled, then stared at him with such intensity that he felt his cheeks redden and he had to fight the urge to look away.

"No."

He looked at her blankly.

"No? No...what?" In his discomfiture, he bit back a sarcastic remark about her communication skills and choice of career path. She scowled and leaned in so close he could smell the heady blend of floral and citrus that wafted from her hair.

"No. No, they do _not_ have all of my records," she hissed through clenched teeth, and held up a data chip between her thumb and forefinger.

He blinked at her as half a dozen possibilities flickered through his brain, and, with a sinking feeling, he dismissed all but one.

"So can I trust you, or was I terribly mistaken about you?" Her tone was challenging, even derisive, but the taut lines of her mouth and the way she hugged her arms to herself betrayed her emotions. It was that tiny glimpse of her vulnerability that triggered something reflexive in him, some impulse that he knew he couldn't deny. He rolled his eyes at his own weakness and sighed in resignation.

"Dammit, woman, this could get both of us in trouble, you know," he grumbled as he plucked the chip from her fingers. He pretended not to notice when her shoulders slumped in relief.

In the end, though, they didn't get in trouble. McCoy's offer to cover the triage doc's next weekend shift earned them a lecherous look, which he pointedly ignored, and an empty exam room in a deserted wing of the clinic.

Once there, he kept his face impassive to hide the wrenching in his heart as he reviewed the data chip, and she kept her stony glare trained on the wall behind him as he scanned and tested and examined; and when he tried to reassure her that she would be fine, it would just take a simple procedure, she pulled away.

"Just get it over with."

So he did what had to be done, and when it was over, she gave him a small, tight smile and touched his hand. She never cried.

He overrode her protests and walked her back to the dorms slowly, carefully. Her door slid open to reveal a green-skinned girl lounging on the sofa, clad in little more than her birthday suit. He forced his eyes to stay on her face, and he was surprised and relieved when she jumped up in alarm.

"Are you hurt, sweetie? What's wrong?" She turned a fierce look upon McCoy. "Did you—"

Uhura swayed in the doorway. "No. I'm fine, Gaila," she gasped. "He's...a friend."

"Fine, my ass," he muttered and half-carried her to what he assumed was her bunk, as it was the slightly neater of the two. "Don't worry, she'll be all right," he said over his shoulder to Gaila, who was hovering protectively. "She just needs some rest."

He snapped a vial into a hypo and double-checked the dosage before he pressed it against Uhura's neck. "The local I gave you will wear off soon. This'll ease the pain, and help you sleep." His fingers settled out of habit against her wrist for a moment, and she looked up at him and gave him a loopy grin.

"I knew there was a rebel in there, Leo. Can I call you Leo?" Her words slurred as the lines of fatigue around her eyes began to ease. "And everyone says you're such a goody-goody two shoes."

"Hush now," he replied gruffly. "You—" He twisted around to look at the Orion, relieved to find that she'd wrapped herself up in a robe. "You'll stay here with her? Good. I want you to call me if she wakes up and complains of pain or if she seems feverish. That's more than thirty-eight degrees or so," he added, just to be safe. He grabbed a notepad from the night table and scribbled his comm extension. "I'll be back in a few hours to check on her." She nodded mutely and he resisted the urge to let his gaze linger on her bouncy hair and the soft curve of her neck. Damned pheromones.

He thought Uhura was asleep, but as he rose, her hand fluttered against his and she murmured something. He leaned close to her.

"What did you say?"

"Nyota," she whispered. "My name is Nyota."

*************************

So here they were again, a year later, and the both of them much, much older now. Once he knew it was there, he'd recognized the closeness between the two women when he saw them around campus and at the occasional happy hour; and he gladly returned the rare warm smile she favored him with when they found themselves in the same group. Although she was still as distant as ever in her usual demeanor, just today he'd glimpsed something on Uhura's face in the transporter room, when Jim and Pike and Spock beamed back from the _Narada_--a look she and the Vulcan exchanged that he would file away in his memory with her secret medical records and take to his grave. Because of these things, he hesitated for a second, knowing more than anyone, perhaps, how much this would hurt her soul.

In that brief hesitation, she knew the truth, and he didn't make it worse by offering empty platitudes about how quick it was, or how she didn't feel a thing, not least because he suspected neither was true in Gaila's case. She nodded once, her expression unreadable, and turned to leave.

"Nyota. Wait." He tried to gentle his voice, but the events of the day, the shouting and the smoke and the goddamn tears he'd shoved down inside, had left him hoarse.

She stopped abruptly, hands on her hips, but did not turn to face him. "I'm tired, McCoy, and I'm off duty. I'd like to sleep now, if that's all right with you." Underneath the sarcasm, her voice was rough, too. He stepped to the replicator and requested a glass of water for her.

"Yeah, sure, but not yet."

She twisted to face him and slammed her hand against the wall. He almost dropped the water before hastily placing it on the edge of a nearby desk. "_Not yet_?" she demanded, eyes narrowed. "Can't you just leave me the fuck alone? Can't you just stop talking for once, stop digging, and let it be?" Her voice rose until it cracked. Around them, the activity in sickbay continued unabated, the crew seemingly oblivious to more shouting and pain.

He had to bite his lip and breathe before he could speak deliberately and without rancor. "I was going to offer you a sedative. That's all."

She seemed thrown off-balance by his mild tone, and looked away to hide her confusion, but made no move toward the exit. He debated whether to just let it be, as she asked, but then took a step toward her. She drew her arms across her chest as if to shield herself and he studied her, searching for signals that would suggest where she wanted to lead him.

"Nyota, look at me." To his surprise, she did, and a tiny, ashamed part of him wanted to turn away, because in her eyes he recognized a precipice he had once seen in his own soul, and the raw, sucking emptiness beyond. She was close, so close, and dear gods he didn't want to push her over. She was shaking uncontrollably now and he touched her shoulder to ground her, to pull her back, and she tolerated him but simply stood there, rigid, for a long silent moment with her breath coming in short painful gasps. He knew what was coming now and waited patiently until she could believe him when he said _it's all right, just let it come, let me take some of it_, and when something dreadful finally gave way inside of her he closed his eyes and steadied her against the flood.


	2. Spock

It disturbed him that in the dream, the course of his planet's death could take so many divergent paths. It was not logical.

In the dream, sometimes the entrance to the sanctuary collapsed just as he approached, and he clawed desperately against the rocks, his blood trickling and mingling with dust, and the screams of the elders filled his mind as the planet rumbled and howled and swallowed him.

Sometimes he reached the sanctuary and was nearly giddy with relief to find his parents unharmed, but in his haste, he slipped on the smooth, time-worn stone and was pinned beneath the massive column when it shuddered and tumbled. His mother's anguished cries echoed through the chamber as his dream-vision darkened.

Sometimes it was Sarek who was snatched from his grasp at the last moment, and his mother reappeared beside him in the transporter room, and he hated himself for the childish relief that flooded him.

But more often, at the end of the dream, just as in reality, he stood outside with the others and willed all of his strength into the crumbling earth beneath them. He heard the last words his mother spoke before her hand slipped from his grasp, and the shocking emptiness tore into him and he could not breathe for an eternity.

Always, though, he was powerless to stop it. And always he awoke filled with shame at the pain that threatened to overwhelm him.

He is not alone. As he sits upright and struggles to escape the clutch of the dream, he feels her stir against him. He resists the impulse to open his eyes, knowing he cannot yet bear the worry on her face.

"Spock." Her voice, still husky and muted from sleep, is a balm on the raw edges of his soul. Still he cannot look at her.

She does not push him. She is patient, a quality he often finds lacking in her kind. The flesh of her hand is cool as she strokes his arm, and he permits the contact with a sense of unease. Her touch has a way of undoing him.

Her hand reaches his bare shoulder and rests there. He wants to kiss it, to take it in his own hands and place it against his cheek and lose himself her intoxicating scent. But he cannot.

"Spock." She speaks urgently now, and he finally opens his eyes to her. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and one strap of her nightgown has slid down, revealing the swell of her breast. He forces his gaze to a spot on the wall behind her.

"It was only a dream, Nyota." He is pleased that his voice is even and measured, but her brow wrinkles and he realizes belatedly that she would not be reassured by his lack of emotion. So difficult to predict, these humans. Especially this one.

She stifles a yawn. "About your mother?" He closes his eyes again to resist the pull of her tenderness, and feels her warm breath against his shoulder as she sighs.

"You'll have to grieve, Spock." Of course she is correct--she knows this pain, and much worse, from her childhood. And she, too, has lost someone in the battle.

"It's all right to feel, Spock, it's okay to let it hurt," she whispers, and slides around to kneel in front of him. "Let me help you." She caresses his face and it feels just as tempting as he'd imagined it would. He is alarmed that his equilibrium is beginning to slip.

"How very...human of you." He realizes that these words, favored weapons of his childhood age-mates, sound just as cruel coming from his mouth, and he is puzzled as to why they have risen from his past at this moment.

She recoils as if he'd slapped her and her hands fall limply to her side. Through his regret runs an ugly undercurrent of grim satisfaction at the pain her hurt causes him.

"Yes, I suppose it was," she replies quietly. "But that doesn't make it any less true." She rises and his gaze follows her instinctively as she slips out of her gown and picks up her uniform from where it had been flung with such haste the evening before. She turns her back to him as she ties her hair back, then bends to fasten her boots.

When she faces him again, he steels himself against the sorrow and pleading etched in her features.

"The first memorial service is this evening."

He knows of this, of course, although he does not understand the purpose of such public displays.

"Will you attend?" There is a challenge in her words that he can identify but not interpret. This is a test, and he is unprepared. His silence drags on too long, and she sighs again, more heavily this time.

"Right. Well. I'll see you on the bridge, then." She pauses in his doorway, one hand smoothing her skirt.

"Spock, please, look at me."

He will not.

"I need to know ...I need to know that you need me, and that--" This time her voice breaks and she covers her mouth and looks down. He understands that her shame is his doing, but refuses to acknowledge the remorse that pushes at the edges of his awareness.

"What do I mean to you, Spock?"

Her fist clenches the fabric of her skirt now and he thinks he could hear the pounding of her heart even from where he sits. He deliberately looks away and picks up his PADD from the night table as if to dismiss her.

"You cannot be to me what you wish to be, Uhura. And I cannot give you what you need." His words are harsher than he had intended, but before he can ask her pardon, the door swishes shut and she disappears.

*********************************

McCoy sits in his quarters and tries not to think. He expects that the shot of whiskey he's just consumed will help with that.

It's quiet here. Blessedly, serenely quiet. At first he'd resisted when Jim told him this morning that he'd have a cabin to himself--with a ship full of displaced Vulcans and other cadets double and triple bunking, having so much space to himself felt sinful. Or at least selfish.

"But you're not a cadet anymore, Bones. You're a CMO."

Still he'd protested. So Jim gave a dramatic sigh and pulled out his PADD. He studied a roster with furrowed brow as McCoy stood patiently in the corridor, a bag slung over each shoulder.

"Hmm. All right, let's see...just a minute...let's see what we have." He tapped his stylus against the screen. "Well, good news, then," he said brightly. "That Russian kid still needs a roomie. What do you say?"

And so he'd used his lunch break to retrieve the rest of his meager possessions from where he'd stowed them in the sickbay storage area, and settled into his very own private quarters. Where now the silence is broken only by an occasional beep from his computer monitor, alerting him to the receipt of a new message, which he is content to ignore. He's finally off duty after the most difficult thirty-six hour shift of his career, worse than anything he'd seen in Atlanta, followed by attendance at the first of many memorial services. The lingering emotion from that room, as yet unexplored, has followed him back here and will not let his mind rest. Another shot of whiskey is in order.

His door chimes as he picks up the bottle. He debates ignoring it, too, but the chime sounds again, more insistently, and he mumbles a curse before he calls out.

"Come in."

His irritation is amplified by the sight of the Vulcan first officer standing there, hands clasped behind his back, looking fresh and composed, and he says the first thing that pops into his head.

"Nice of you to join us for the memorial service, Commander."

The Vulcan's eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

"How very kind of you to notice my absence, Doctor."

He grudgingly admits to himself that in this arrogant, smug bastard he may have met his sarcastic equal.

"Yeah, I noticed. Everyone notices when the ship's second in command is a no-show at an official event."

Now, that was just churlish of him, and he knows the rebuke in his voice is sharper than it should have been, but he tells himself he doesn't care.

Spock's expression becomes unreadable.

"I have disturbed you, Doctor. My apologies," he says flatly, and turns to leave.

McCoy debates letting him go, but knows that whatever it was that brought the Vulcan to his door, he's only postponing the inevitable.

"Spock. Wait." He sets the bottle on the table and crosses the short distance to the door. He reaches out to place a restraining hand on the Vulcan's arm, but stops short at the look of horror that flickers across the other man's face. Right. He'd almost forgotten about that.

"Sorry," he mutters, and crosses his arms instead. He jerks his head toward the room.

"Sit down." He waits for Spock to step over the threshold and shoves his duffel off of the other chair before flopping back down in his seat. But the Vulcan does not sit, only stands there with a stubborn set to his chin.

"If this is about the inventory reports, I'm working on them. I was going to finish them up tonight, in fact." McCoy glances meaningfully at his PADD on the nearby table and then looks up with a scowl. "But if we're going to keep talking instead, you need to sit down before you give me an even bigger pain in my neck."

"Very well." He steps reluctantly to the chair and perches on the edge, and his eyes shift away to a point on the floor. "However, I did not come here to discuss inventory reports."

There's something peculiar in his voice, some urgency or agitation that gives McCoy pause. He studies the Vulcan with new eyes, seeing now the tension in his shoulders, the way he seems intent on looking anywhere but at McCoy. It takes him a moment, longer than he would have liked, to back up and reassess the situation, and he sighs to himself when he realizes he won't be pouring that drink anytime soon.

"What do you need, Spock?" He knows compassion is a long shot here, but aims half-heartedly for neutrality, at least. He's not ready to relinquish the bitter memories of the recent public confrontations between Spock and Jim, the inane conversation on the bridge when Spock had thanked him for his support--how did the Kentucky Derby get dragged into that, anyway?---or the horrifying, paralyzing moment when the Vulcan's hands closed around Jim's throat.

Spock twists his fingers together and shifts in the chair, and McCoy realizes with no small measure of astonishment that he's fidgeting, this model of control —well, except for those few minutes on the bridge when Jim wouldn't shut up, and by god, he has to concede that given the right set of circumstances he might've been tempted to strangle the man, too—Spock, the ultimate logic machine, is actually _fidgeting._ He feels the first, fragile tendril of pity begin to curl into that space in his head, but he's wary of nurturing it into empathy yet, and he knows enough to keep quiet for now.

"Uhura trusts you."

The Vulcan's words are tentative but without inflection, and since McCoy isn't sure if it's an explanation or a statement or a question or a confession, he just waits. Silence doesn't bother him; he'd learned the hard way that people would talk when they damn well wanted to, and trying to force it was like pulling a tooth without Novocain.

So he waits, and finally the Vulcan lifts his head.

"I need--" He stumbles over the words as his voice breaks.

"Just say it, Spock." He tries to suppress his exasperation, but the man's discomfort is so palpable now that it's enough to make McCoy want to squirm.

"Uhura. I have hurt her." It comes out in a rush and McCoy is caught by surprise.

A vision flashes through his mind, of wrestling the Vulcan from the chair, throwing him to the floor, and pummeling his face into a messy green pulp. He lets it linger for a moment as he searches for a response that won't violate his oath, before falling back on the safest one he could muster, the one they taught him to say when nothing else would work.

"Oh?"

He's relieved that his voice and body language don't betray him--the Vulcan seems oblivious to the thrashing he's taking in McCoy's head.

"I cannot be what she needs me to be."

The fantasy death match evaporates and is replaced with a singular, familiar sorrow. He'd been there before, in a different life, a different time, and knows this pain. With some reluctance he packs up the last of his animosity toward Spock and sets in on a shelf in his mind for now.

"Can you tell me more about that?"

Spock shakes his head slowly. "I cannot." Although his face remains stony, there is anguish and shame, and naked fear in his voice, and McCoy realizes that none of his usual responses will work here, not the reliable _It's all right, I want to help,_ or the reassuring _I'm listening, take your time, _or the ever-popular _Don't worry, I've heard it all before_. To offer any of them would be trite and insulting, and he is at a loss.

He's seen how the other Vulcans on the ship ignore Spock, how with the exception of Sarek their eyes flicker right over him, and has decided that although he doesn't understand the meaning of it, this shunning is Spock has sent a clear message, not least by his absence at the memorial, that he cannot or will not be human, either. And in the last two days, as he's endured the destruction of his home, the death of nearly his entire race, and the loss of his mother, McCoy suspects that he's also had to absorb the shock of realizing that he's now, in many ways, an orphan of two worlds.

No, the old cliches definitely wouldn't work here, not with this one.

"Then just listen to me." This is safer ground, anyway: ordering people around has always been his default communication setting. And he senses that Spock doesn't need or want commiseration or comfort, anyway—it would only be met with scorn, or at best, retreat.

"I don't think Uhura or anyone else is asking you to choose between being completely Vulcan or human. But forsaking both worlds is like cutting off your nose to spite your face—don't look at me like that, you know what that means." He pauses, his exhaustion suddenly so great that he feels dizzy and his voice seems to echo in his head. But at least Spock is looking at him now, and the intensity of his gaze jolts McCoy back to the here and now.

"Look, you can't have logic without emotion, right? One balances the other, just like light defines dark. And with love comes loss. But if you want one, you have to learn to live with the other." He rubs at his face and groans. "Hell, this isn't coming out right. I guess what I'm trying to say, Spock, is that if you love her, let her in. Even if it means risking more than you think you can bear."

Spock is silent for so long that his thoughts begin to scatter again, but it's a thoughtful silence now, and after a long moment he gives McCoy a shrewd, curious look.

"My mother once said something very similar to my father ."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He hesitates, unsure how much farther he will be permitted. "And I am sorry, Spock. I'm sorry you've lost so much." He doesn't even have to feign the sincerity this time.

But apparently the moment has passed, before McCoy realizes it, the Vulcan's smooth facade, his cool, appraising gaze, is back in place as he rises from the chair and moves purposefully to the door. Watching him, and detecting no indication of distress in his bearing or expression, for a brief moment McCoy wonders if any of this was real, or if his sleep-deprived brain has just fabricated an elaborate hallucination. But then Spock stops and hovers in the doorway, his back to McCoy.

"This discussion, Doctor...I assume it is--"

He rolls his eyes. "Don't worry, Spock. It never happened. Now go away already and let me finish my drink."

As the door closes he considers the shot glass and how it just really isn't up to this task, and reaches for the bottle instead.


	3. Scotty, and Keenser, and Chapel, Oh My!

He needs some coffee. After that weird conversation with Spock last night he'd downed half a bottle of whiskey, and prior experience tells him that it will take, at minimum, three cups of coffee to revive his sodden brain cells.

He claims to like it black with no sugar, but has been known to indulge in a surreptitious splash of hazelnut creamer when no one else is around. No whipped cream, though--he draws the line at whipped cream. And those little mocha chips, well, they're just too girly. So those are restricted to when no one is looking, too.

This morning, he doesn't much care what's in it as long as it's heavily caffeinated and available in large quantities. He enters the officer's mess and makes a beeline for the nearest replicator, taps in his selection, and scans the room. His gaze settles briefly on a far table, where Spock and Uhura are engaged in an intense conversation, and he gives a small nod of approval. A couple of his nurses and a lab tech are giggling at something, he doesn't want to know what, over their danishes. And Jim Kirk, wonder boy Acting Captain, is holding court at the center table.

Just as he realizes that it's taking far too long for the coffee to appear, the new helmsman, the one he's heard them call Brake Boy behind his back, approaches with a piece of paper in hand.

"Excuse me, sir." He steps around McCoy to place the paper on the replicator slot.

It reads, "COFFEE SERVICE UNAVAILABLE," and the doctor groans.

"No no no no no no, this can't be happening."

Brake Boy nods. "I'm sorry, sir, it just went down. But tea and juice are still available," he adds.

McCoy glowers at him. "I. Don't. Want. Tea."

The kid shrugs and holds his hands up apologetically. "I'm a pilot, sir, not a mechanic. I'm sure they're working on it."

"Right, I'm sure they are, uh--" He squints, trying to remember what Jim called the kid, and wishes for the hundredth time in the last three days that Starfleet would just suck it up and give everyone name badges.

"Sulu. Hikaru Sulu."

"--Sulu. That's right. In the meantime," he says loudly enough for his voice to carry across the room, "the ship's CMO is suffering from caffeine withdrawal." All eyes are on him now. "So if any of you are scheduled for immunizations this morning, you've been warned."

He stalks to Jim's table and slaps his PADD down. "When will it be fixed?"

"Well, and a good morning to you, too, sunshine. Pull up a chair and join us," Jim says with a dazzling smile.

Leonard McCoy is not a morning person. In fact, he ranks mornings right up there with flying, pistachios, and bratty little kids. Or bratty grown-ups, for that matter. Speaking of bratty grown-ups, his ex-wife was a morning person, and he's convinced that in the end, it was this personality trait--as much as the time he caught her in bed with that Neanderthal, and, of course, the fact that she was the spawn of Satan himself--that doomed their marriage.

Yet over the years, McCoy has tried to tolerate Kirk's inordinate cheerfulness in the morning, and Kirk has learned that, generally, he should not speak to McCoy before his coffee. Since this uneasy before-0800-hours truce has held from their first term at the Academy, the doctor suspects that his friend is now being intentionally annoying, and this does not improve his mood.

"Who's working on it?" He ignores the others for now: the Scotsman with the laughing eyes and the unreadable creature that follows him around everywhere, and the wide-eyed Russian navigator.

"I guess, technically, that would be engineering. What do you think, Scotty?"

McCoy turns his scowl on the other man. The half-smirk vanishes from the engineer's face and the back legs of his chair thud to the deck. "Um, actually, that would be food services...but," he amends hastily, "I can check on it and offer some assistance if ye'd like."

"Yes, I'd like," the doctor says through clenched teeth. "Oh, and before I forget, you need to report to Sick Bay. I don't know what you did to deserve it, but sticking you on that ice cube for six months with no medical care was a disgrace, and now you're long overdue for a physical. And you, too," he points at the dark alien. "What's your name, anyway?"

"His name is Keenser," Scotty says quickly. "And we're fine, thank you. Really, we don't need any medical care, right, Keenser?"

The alien nods his head vigorously.

McCoy snorts. "I'll be the judge of that, _Doctor_ Scott. You just better hope I've had some coffee before you show up." He grabs his PADD and stomps out of the mess.

"Aye, you can be sure of that," the engineer mutters at the doctor's back.

******************************

It's late afternoon when Scotty shows up, Keenser in tow, and McCoy has been adequately caffeinated by then. Sick Bay is deserted, for once, except for the few patients who are still recovering from injuries sustained in the recent battle, and they are in private rooms.

"Are ye too busy at the moment, Doctor?" There is an unmistakable note of hopefulness in the engineer's question.

McCoy looks up from the inventory reports he's finally finishing and stares at him as if he's daft. He gestures around at the obvious lack of patients. "Clearly, I'm overwhelmed."

Scotty scowls at him. "I see you're still in a snit."

"I am not in a snit. This is just my naturally charming personality, so get used to it. All right, you first, Scotty. Hop up. You--" he gestures with his stylus at the alien. "Sit over there."

Scotty complies, but his jaw juts out and he eyes the doctor with suspicion.

"What are ye gonna do?"

"Nothing that hurts, as long as you lie still and cooperate."

He _harrumphs_, but lowers himself to the biobed and McCoy relishes, as he always does, the small victory. He pulls out his scanner and the monitors above the bed come to life.

"So. I have to ask: What did a bright, personable guy like you do to get stuck on that outpost?"

He knows he's hit a nerve when the monitors indicate a spike in the man's heart rate and blood pressure. He swears he hears Scotty growl.

"It's that barking Admiral Archer. He's got it in for me, just because I lost his dog."

McCoy doesn't try to hide his incredulity. "_You_ lost Porthos? My god, man, you're lucky you didn't end up in Jaros." He reaches up to slide the display on the monitor to a new screen.

Scotty blanches. "Aye, don't I know it," he said. "But I was just tryin' to test me new transwarp theory, and the dog was such a wee little thing I thought he'd be easy enough to pull back, but before I knew it, the poor bairn was gone. Poof. Just like that. His molecules all scattered around oot there somewhere."

McCoy drops his scanner. "Scattered?" he chokes out. "That can actually happen?" He grips the edge of the bed as his vision temporarily darkens.

"Oh, aye, aye, it's rare enough, but it happens from time to time. We don't like to advertise it, o' course, and it's not that Porthos is gone, really," he continues, oblivious to McCoy's distress, "It's just a matter o' figurin' oot where his molecules might be, and then gettin' 'em all back together again. Don't worry, I've not given up. I'll find him yet, and then Archer will have to eat some--crivens, Doctor, are ye all right?"

There's genuine concern in the man's eyes, and McCoy frowns to cover his embarrassment.

"I'm fine," he says shortly. "And so are you. Get down. Okay, it's your turn--" he twists around to the chair he'd sent Keenser to, but the little alien isn't there.

"Well, shit, where the hell'd he go?" He's not used to his patients disappearing.

"Get yer arse down from there!" Scotty yells across the room. McCoy follows his gaze and spots Keenser perched atop a storage cabinet along the wall facing his office. He's crouched on his haunches and shows no intention of budging.

"Why's he doing that?"

"Why? Because his species is arboreal," the engineer replies without looking at him, as if that explains everything, and wags his finger in the air. "Don't make me come up there, you little whelp!"

There's something in the way Scotty looks at the alien that niggles at the back of his brain.

"Scotty."

At first, the engineer won't look away from Keenser, who's still sitting there, shaking his head with such force that the cabinet wobbles a little.

"Mr. Scott." The man starts at the edge in McCoy's voice.

"Aye, Doctor?"

"Scott, I need to ask you something about this little guy. See, I can't find anything in Starfleet records about him. I tried spelling his name every way I could imagine. Actually," he watches closely for a reaction, "I can't even find any xeno records on his species at all."

"Oh?"

That trick won't work on him.

"Yeah. So before I report the both of you to the captain, I thought I'd give you a chance to enlighten me and help me understand just what kind of foolishness you're trying to pull off here."

Scotty's face crumples and he buries his head in his hands. "Ach, no, I knew this would happen," he moans.

"What, Scotty?"

"Oh no, no, I canna believe after all this time--"

"Spill it, mister." McCoy is rapidly losing patience.

"McCoy." The engineer clasps his hands in supplication. "McCoy, I need you to do something for me."

The doctor sighs. Everyone needs something from him, and he senses this one will be a humdinger.

"What do you need, Scotty?" He tries to keep the resignation out of his voice.

"Well, it's not just me, you see," Scotty says. "It's about Keenser, too, 'course."

"Of course."

"Ah, yes, well, let's see, how should I put this...eh, I suppose you could say that Keenser here is on sort of an unofficial goodwill mission from his home planet."

"Uh huh." He gestures for Scotty to continue, and shoots a glance up at the alien. He seems to be following their conversation, and is pulling at his ears in what McCoy takes to be a nervous mannerism. "I'm afraid you're gonna have to spell this out for me, Scott. I'm not following you."

Scott hangs his head. "It's sort of like Porthos."

Now that's truly a first-rate non sequitur, as far as McCoy is concerned.

"Pardon?"

"See, when I was doin' those experiments that we talked about earlier, and the little doggy got ...misplaced...well, I also, just once in a while--mind you, just occasionally--I would end up with something...or someone... sort of unexpected on my end of the transporter."

It takes McCoy a moment to process this information and then his mouth drops open in astonishment.

"Scotty. _Scotty._ Are you saying that he--" he points up at the cabinet "--he is not really a legitimate member of Starfleet? You just accidentally beamed in a random sentient being and--and" he sputters "--and you _kept_ him?"

The engineer hangs his head. "Aye, aye," he sighs. "That be the truth."

"Didn't you try to return him?"

He looks indignant at this. "Course I did. I beamed him right back with a note explainin' what happened and offerin' my deepest apologies, and they sent him back to me, I swear it."

"I don't believe you."

"Why would I lie, McCoy?" he cries. "Sure, it was lonely as hell there, but I have me scruples, man. I wouldna kidnap someone just to keep me company. His people thought lettin' him stay here would be a good way to explore new civilizations without havin' to come down from their trees and build a bunch of ships to go gallivantin' all over the galaxy. He'll go back home in a few years, and everything'll be dandy, and in the meantime, I've got the best assistant ever. He's clever with a spanner, for a kid."

"Kid?" He regrets asking as soon as he word comes out. Scott shifts and chews his lip.

"Aye. Well, I'll just come out with it, since you know the rest. He's technically...uh... underage for Starfleet service."

"_How_ underage?"

"Oh, I'd put him at about sixteen. Or," he amends, at McCoy's raised eyebrow, "maybe fifteen, in human years."

"Oh, Scotty," McCoy groans. "I don't think I can pretend I don't know about this."

The engineer's shoulders slump and a low, keening sound comes from the cabinet.

"Ach, Keenser, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, laddie. But the doc's right. Ye canna stay here. It's nae fair to your mum, and we'd be found oot before too long anyway." The alien scrambles down and shuffles over to Scotty, who pats him awkwardly on the head. "I know, I know, Keenser, it'll be all right," he says in a strangled whisper.

McCoy feels lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut. He's seen too much loss and suffering in the last few days, and he's just violated his promise to first do no harm, and now on top of all the insomnia and nightmares and panic attacks that have started popping up among the crew and the inevitability of some nasty cases of full-blown post-traumatic stress, he'll have to deal with a weepy adolescent and his heart-broken friend. Jim will undoubtedly be thrilled to discover that his new chief engineer is paralyzed with grief, and that McCoy is to blame for it. Shit.

He closes his eyes for a moment and runs through what he'll say to the authorities when they figure this out.

"Okay, look." Scotty raises his bloodshot eyes, but Keenser keeps his head buried in the engineer's knees.

"I won't be the one to report this. I'm gonna do a quick exam to get some baseline readings on him, just in case, but he won't be in my records under his name. The rest of it is your problem."

He brushes off Scotty's repeated thanks as he runs his scanner over the alien. "I don't want to hear another word about it. Really. I mean that."

Scott beams at him. "Aye, aye, I understand. And so does Keenser, right?"

Keenser looks up at him and blinks his big black eyes. McCoy can't read any emotion there, but then he lifts his arms up at the doctor.

McCoy puts his scanner away and gives Scott a puzzled look. "What's that mean? What does he need? What do you want?"

"Oh, um," the engineer clears this throat. "He needs...well, he needs a hug." He shrugs and grins.

McCoy rubs at his face wearily and decides that if that's all this kid needs from him, he's getting off pretty easy today.

"Oh, for god's sake, " he grumbles. "Come here, then." He leans down and Keenser grabs his neck. "Okay, okay, that's enough. I have a reputation to maintain, you know." He extricates himself and shakes his head. "Now shut up and get the hell out of here, both of you."

***********************

"That was sweet."

He starts at her voice. He'd thought she had left with the rest of the alpha shift, but here she is, standing in his doorway.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Chapel." He doesn't look up from the stacks of disks and data sticks on his desk.

"Oh, come on, McCoy. I saw what you did earlier. I always knew you were a softie."

He doesn't mind the good-natured teasing, though he'd never admit it. Chapel had earned his respect long ago, when they were often assigned to the same shift at the Academy clinic, and he saw how her kind but no-nonsense manner put even the most reluctant patients at ease.

And in the middle of those lonely, boring, overnight shifts they'd sometimes flirted with each other until it drove them nearly mad, and had more than once ended up entangled in each other's arms in an out-of-the-way corridor, bodies pressed together, hands and lips roaming and squeezing, and her little moans of pleasure as he nibbled her ear making his knees wobbly...But that's not, of course, why he's glad to have her in his Sick Bay, he reminds himself. She's a fine clinician and a skilled leader. And she's standing there smiling at him, with one hand on her hip, so close he can smell the woodsy cinnamon scent she wears.

So when she leans over his desk and wraps her fingers in his hair and gently tugs at his lip with her teeth it seems only natural to respond. Then the kiss becomes more urgent and more intense than he expected, and he's momentarily dazed when she pulls away.

"Thanks. I needed that."

He tries to slow his breathing before he replies. "Um...you're welcome. Anytime." No, no, no. He cringes. That didn't come out right.

Her eyes are laughing at him, but not unkindly, and he thinks they may be trying to say something else, too. He decides there's nothing to lose, so what the hell.

"Do you...do you need anything else?"

Her smile turns sultry and his heart nearly stops.

"Oh, I thought you'd never ask. Why don't you stop by my quarters later and find out?"

And so he does.


	4. Chekov

Chekov isn't even supposed to be here. He's reminded of that every time he has to override and reset the entry code on his door because Headquarters didn't have a chance to finish integrating all of his security identification parameters into the ship's computer before they left Earth orbit. And when he finally gets the door to open, he's greeted with emptiness because even though the ship is bursting at the seams, no one has offered to share this sterile little cabin with him. If he actually slept there, it would be unbearable.

He's reminded of it when he enters the Mess and even when Kirk invites him to sit at his table everyone looks through him because they all have years of shared friendship and teamwork and rivalry behind them, and he's just the whiz kid with the weird accent from halfway across the world who got swept up in this tragedy because, as the mantra in his head says over and over again, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Most of all, he's reminded of it every time he sees the first officer and relives the moment in the transporter room when he hears the echo of that terrible scream and sees the split-second of horror on the Vulcan's face.

And now, the intense camaraderie that was forged in battle has begun to fade, and others are turning inward to grieve or seeking solace in long-standing relationships and Chekov feels like just another ghost walking among them. They are not exactly unkind to him, but although he feels their loss, he cannot quite understand it in the same way that they do, and they know this.

*********************

He has found that the far corner of the observation deck, tucked away around the curve of a bulkhead, is usually empty in the middle of the night. He has come to think of it as _his_, and feels almost as though the area, with its cozy chairs and soft shadows, welcomes him as an old friend.

So when he slips around the corner, he certainly doesn't expect to see the doctor sitting there, the one from the bridge, and his stomach twists as he hears again the disbelief and scorn that dripped from the man's voice (_How old are you? Oh, great, Jim, did you hear that? __He's seventeen__)_. In the chair next to him, he can just make out the figure of a woman in science blues—he thinks he has seen her in sickbay—her head resting against the doctor's shoulder as she whispers something close to his ear, and when they notice him he averts his eyes before he blushes.

"Excuse me," he stammers, and takes a hasty step backward. "I—I'm sorry, sir. Sirs."

"It's all right, I was just leaving anyway. Been a long day." The woman rises gracefully and her hand lingers on the doctor's arm. "I'll see you in the morning." The two share a look that Pavel cannot quite decipher in the starlit dimness, but he shivers inwardly at the unmistakable intimacy in it.

"Have a good night, Ensign." She brushes past him and he's temporarily unable to breathe.

He hears a sigh and the muted _clink_ of ice in an empty glass from the shadows. He waits, hopeful that the doctor will also rise to follow the woman, but he looks comfortable enough, slouched in the chair with his legs stretched out. He has just decided to return to the lab and try again later when the man speaks, and Chekov realizes with dismay that he has missed his opportunity.

"Well, I'd offer you a drink, but I don't think you're legal yet, even out here in the middle of nowhere." Although he cannot quite see him, the gravelly voice is the same, and so is the memory of the rush of emotion that followed in its wake.

"Yes, sir, you've pointed that out." He's surprised at the bitterness in his voice, and the tightening in his throat that makes him choke on his words. In the thick, heavy silence that follows he gives himself a mental smack to his head.

It has been apparent from the beginning of this mission that the doctor and the new acting captain are the closest of friends, from the easiness in the way they stand together and the glances they exchange that don't even need words. But this man, with his sharp eyes and sharper words, lacks Kirk's smooth smile and the natural charm that so quickly won him the confidence of the crew. Chekov had not been surprised when earlier, during a lull in activity on the bridge, Sulu—one of the few crewmembers who talks to him, but he tells himself it's probably only because they spend all day sitting next to each other—complained mightily under his breath about how the doctor nearly bit his head off this morning, right in front of the captain, over the malfunctioning coffee system. Chekov takes some meager comfort in knowing that the doctor is an equal-opportunity bully.

And now he's gone and poked the _mamuschi_ with a pointy stick. Brilliant, Pavel.

"Sit down."

_Govno._ "I was just going, sir. Sorry to disturb—"

"That wasn't an invitation, kid." There is steel in his voice now. "Sit your ass down." Chekov obeys. The doctor reaches down for a bottle on the floor and he hears a gentle splash. The sweet odor of bourbon drifts to him, and he's thrown back to the smoke-filled rooms of his uncle's tavern, with the laughter and the warmth and the crisp bite of vodka, and a pang of homesickness nearly makes him gasp.

"Look, Chekov—it _is_ Chekov, right? You're gonna learn real quick that if you want to serve under Jim Kirk, you can't get your panties in a wad every time someone looks at you sideways."

Although he is unfamiliar with this particular idiom, the meaning is clear enough, and his face burns. He stares stonily at the stars streaming past them.

"Yes, sir." His muscles tremble despite his best efforts, and he finds that he cannot control his breathing. It has become alarmingly harsh in this suffocating space that once seemed so friendly.

"You have permission to speak freely, in case you were wondering," the doctor says dryly.

Chekov turns to face him, and does not try to conceal the fury that sparks in his eyes . "Wery—very well, then, sir." He draws a deep, shaky breath. "You have made erroneous assumptions. I perhaps will not wish to return to space and continue to serve on this ship. And you have assumed that Kirk will be granted a command, in spite of the charges pending against him. Including unauthorized boarding of a starship." _A violation with which you assisted. _Although he resists the urge to speak the words aloud, they seem to hang in the air anyway.

The doctor gives him a inscrutable look and swirls the dark liquid in his glass, then follows Chekov's stare out the viewport. "All right. Fair enough," he replies after a long moment. "But let's just say I've learned never to underestimate Jim Kirk. And stop calling me _sir_," he adds. "Most people—with the exception of my ex-wife—call me Doctor or McCoy or both, but _sir_ just makes me feel a little ridiculous."

The tension in the air loosens a bit and Chekov wills his hands to unclench. He returns his gaze to the never-ending stars and allows them to lull him away from here, away from this irritating man who won't stop yammering and just leave him in peace. His allows his thoughts to drift back to the tavern.

"So where do you want to go, if not back out there?" McCoy's question startles Chekov out of his reverie and he sits up at attention. The doctor gestures vaguely at the viewport.

"Home," he says promptly.

"Where's home?"

"Moscow."

"Oh, yeah. That's right." McCoy's eyes close. "The branch Academy over there recruited you straight from the Institute, didn't they? Top of your class in cartography and transporter theory, youngest cadet to win the marathon." He recites Chekov's record effortlessly, and the ensign wonders if he's memorized the histories of the entire crew, or if he should be worried that the doctor has singled him out for special attention.

McCoy opens his eyes and gives him a cocky grin, the first one he's seen from the man, and answers his unspoken question. "I make an effort to get to know all of the people I might be patching up someday. So then you're visiting sunny San Fran for a seminar in theoretical physics," he continues, "and next thing you know, here you are. Wrong place at the wrong time, hmm?"

_Wrong place at the wrong time._ Chekov can't help shooting McCoy a startled look. "Yes, something like that."

"Well, your record is impressive."

"Thank you, sir. I mean, Doctor," he says politely. "I have endeavored to excel."

"Yes, I imagine you have." His tone is bland, and as he rambles on Chekov begins to wonder if he will get away from here before the alpha shift comes around and he's expected on the bridge again.

"Well, I'd say you've succeeded. After what you pulled off no one on this ship questions your abilities, believe me." He takes a final pull from his glass, somewhat regretfully, and then studies it as he turns it idly in his hands. "You know, you could have your pick of starship assignments, but if you don't think you're cut out for this, if you really want to go back home, I'm sure they'll find something for you to do. Something to keep you busy."

"It's not like that. You don't understand. It's not like that at all." He is becoming impatient but is careful not to sound petulant, not with this one, even though he believes the doctor is attempting to provoke him. There are tests to re-run, simulations to re-program, recordings to review; he has really only come here for a brief respite, and he is trying but his fuzzy brain cannot summon up the protocol for terminating a discussion between a senior and junior officer and the prescribed punishment for violating that protocol. He wonders fleetingly if he can be demoted from an ensign.

"Then why don't you tell me. 'Cause they're gonna ask you the same thing when we get back, so you might as well figure it out now, before you're sitting in a debriefing with a dozen admirals breathing down your neck," the doctor drawls.

He shifts restlessly in the chair, wondering how he'd ever thought they were comfortable, and as his head dips into the glow from the recessed lighting, he shields his bloodshot eyes against it and curses. McCoy takes a sharp breath and sets his glass down with a _thunk_ as he leans forward from the shadows.

"Good god, when's the last time you slept, son? You look like shit."

"I don't know, a day or two." He waves his hand dismissively, but McCoy won't let up.

"Well, which is it? A day, or two? Since the battle, even?" The doctor's eyes widen in alarm.

"Yes. Maybe...No." He sighs in resignation. There is no denying it, he tells himself, and besides, the doctor carries his little scanner everywhere, and he's sure it has an indicator for Lying to One's Superiors.

"Hell, Chekov, you're not the only one on the ship who can't sleep these days, but you can't go that long, not even when you're seventeen." He reaches for the bottle and the glass and stands up, all business now. "You're relieved of duty until you've had a solid six hours, Ensign. You can't be at tactical, or anywhere else for that matter, in this condition." He's peering around the chairs, looking for something. "How the fuck did nobody notice this...how the fuck did _I_ not notice this?" he mutters to himself. "Ah, there it is. All right, come on, I'm walking you back to your quarters right now, and I will personally knock you out if I have to."

Chekov has no doubt that he will do just that, but he doesn't hear a threat in it, it's more like reassurance, and this is what gives him the crazy idea that he can reason with the man. He pulls himself up to his full height and fixes his most stubborn expression on his face, the one that used to make his tutors throw up their hands in despair.

"No, no, no, sir. I need only a few more hours. I am working on something very, very important, and I must return to the lab." He says this with as much authority as he can muster, but the doctor just shakes his head.

"Uh-uh. Whatever it is, it can wait. Now c'mon. That's an order." He tugs at Chekov's arm but the ensign jerks away, and the doctor's grasp must have been looser than he thought, because he stumbles and nearly knocks over the chair.

"No! It cannot wait!"

McCoy tilts his head and a careful look comes over his face. He puts the bottle and glass back down and holds up his hands. "All right, then. It's all right, Pavel. Why don't you tell me what's so important?"

The doctor's voice has become soothing, like a mama talking to a frightened child, and Chekov wonders how he could have ever thought that his eyes were cruel, but as the tears threaten again Chekov suspects that he is just humoring him, that he has only a moment before the man pulls out a hypo and then sticks him in one of those special rooms in the sickbay that he has heard about, the ones with windows that cannot be opaqued and no sharp edges.

"I am trying to fix it, what happened with the Wulcans--the Vulcans--with the transporter. I need to fix it, because I failed, and now I must make it right." He knows he sounds desperate, but apparently the doctor hears something else, too, because his brow furrows and he moves close enough to grab Chekov's chin. The ensign tries not to squirm when McCoy pins him with his stare.

"Chekov, listen to me very carefully, okay? Sleep deprivation messes with your brain. You are not thinking clearly right now. You can't fix what happened, and you cannot bring Amanda Grayson back. I promise, this will all make more sense after you've had a few hours of sleep."

He groans in frustration and tries without success to bat the doctor's hand away. "Doctor McCoy, please, I know that. Don't you think I know that? But I see Mr. Spock and..." he falters, "and I can't stop thinking about it, and how it shouldn't have happened. I was supposed to bring all of them back, no?" His words are all coming out in a rush now, tumbling together, and he can't stop them.

"So I have collected all of the data and I have been going over it again and again, trying to figure it out, because I've never failed like this before, and I need to know what I did wrong so it never happens again, so I never kill anyone again." He squeezes his eyes shut and thanks the gods that he can push back the tears, but he still has to cover his face as his breath hitches in the silence. McCoy rests his hand briefly on his shoulder and then gives him a little shake.

"Aw, hell, Chekov, what's wrong with you? You wouldn't let me get away with taking a cheap shot at you, so why are you talking to yourself that way? It's just gonna make you crazy." There's a weariness in it, and a gentleness, that Chekov doesn't expect, and it only makes it harder to stop the quivering in his voice.

"Do you deny that it was my fault?"

"Jesus," the doctor swears at the ceiling, then gives Chekov an exasperated look. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, I do. And if you asked the captain or even Spock or anyone else, they'd say the same thing. Sorry to shoot holes in the guilt you think you're entitled to, but this isn't some goddamn simulation, some test in a lab that you can beat if you can just figure out how it works."

Chekov opens his mouth to protest, but the doctor cuts him off with glare. "This is the real world, and it doesn't always play fair."

A medkit appears from nowhere, the one Chekov supposes he was looking for earlier, and McCoy focuses his attention there, rummaging through the contents. "I've felt four people die under my hands in the last three days." He falls silent, busying himself with pulling out vials and scowling at them before tossing them back, and when he continues, his tone is oddly muted. "I know as well as you do that when you're the best at what you do, it's hard to accept that some things are beyond your control. And that's the problem, learning to let go and accepting the randomness, the fact that for some reason we'll never quite understand, you and I survived, and so many others didn't.

"But for now," he adds, and the gruffness returns, "you can just work on getting through the next few days. Where are your quarters?" The frown has also returned and he turns the full force of it on the ensign as he snaps a vial into a hypo.

Chekov tries to back away. He's heard the rumors of McCoy chasing Kirk around the ship with hypos like a madman. "I really do not think that this is necessary, Doctor. I will go quietly with you—"

"Nope. Don't trust you. Not right now, anyway."

"—and I will go to sleep—"

"Shut up, kid."

"Okay, sir, but—"

"No, no, see, you're not listening. _Really,_ I mean it_._ You can shut up now. Well," he amends, "after you tell me where your quarters are."

Chekov scrunches up his face and has to think for a second. "Um, not far, just down the main corridor and to the left—but, Doctor—"

"Good. 'Cause I might have to carry you there. Hold still, dammit."

"Ooowwww." Chekov yelps at the small stab against his neck. "That vas... unnecessarily rough, sir."

"Well, then, it's a good thing I'm a doctor, and not a football player, huh?"

As the room begins to blur around Chekov he thinks he hears the edges of McCoy's voice soften as well.

"Nighty-night, kid."


	5. Jim

_Alas, I think this little collection of stories has reached its conclusion. I've enjoyed writing about the early days of the crew, as they got to know each other. Thanks for reading and reviewing._

She smiles up at him from the photo, and it breaks his heart. He thinks of her goofy grin filled with teeth she hasn't yet grown into, her hair that sticks up in just the same place as his, the way she likes to snuggle up against his neck. _Let's play the no-smiling game, Daddy. Whoever smiles first loses!_ Of course, he always wins that one, because lord knows he's had lots of practice at glowering over the last few years. _Please stay, stay just a few more minutes,_ she begs him when he tucks her in, and the moonlight dapples across her bed and her eyes drowse and he inhales the clean, baby soft scent of her hair.

The ex stays out of the way, respecting their unspoken agreement to behave civilly around Jo, but even now the contempt and guilt that drove them apart in the first place is evident in the way her eyes flick away from his and how she holds herself apart from him, wrapping her arms around herself the way she would never let him.

He arrived in San Francisco this afternoon, and already the fog and damp chill makes him long for the crisp, clear autumn air in Georgia, and the way it swirls around the maple and hickory trees, making the brilliant leaves dance. He has been sitting in the hotel room ever since, not bothering to unpack, except for the bottle of fine Kentucky bourbon he brought back. As darkness falls, he cradles the photo in his hands as carefully as he held her when she was a babe, and relives the visit, committing every detail to his memory before it begins to fade and blur. He longs to reach for the bottle and pour a drink, but he knows the numbness it will bring, and takes savage pleasure in denying himself that relief.

There is a thump and a muffled curse at the door, and fumbling at the lock. After a moment, Jim stumbles in, his face and hands a mess, and sways in the light cast by the bathroom light.

"Jesus Christ, Jim."

"Yeah, nice to see you, too, Bones." There's a slight slur in his voice, and the distinctive sour, musty smell of one of the miserable dives that he favors over the city's many perfectly respectable bars.

McCoy grabs the other man's arm and guides him to the edge of one of the beds, flipping on a table lamp to its brightest setting so he can get a good look at what the hell the kid's done to himself this time. Jim winces but doesn't protest as the doctor's fingers grab his chin and probe, none too gently, along his jaw and over the bony ridge of his nose. McCoy sighs and digs around in his bag for his medkit. Out comes his scanner and an assortment of gauze and bandages and, when Jim's not paying attention, a hypo, which he slips under a pillow for now.

He notes that the great James Tiberius Kirk, current hero of the universe and newly-minted captain of the flagship of the Fleet, does not much look the part this evening. He's in his civvies, and his black tee is ripped along one shoulder, and he needs a shave. Multiple abrasions on his knuckles are beginning to crust over, and blood from a gash above his left eye oozes down his temple.

"Do you want something for the pain before I start? No, of course not, how silly of me to offer." He places the scanner on the bedside table and selects a small bottle from the pile of supplies he's stacked up on the bedcover next to Jim. "Well, nothing's broken this time, so I guess you got off easy. But you're gonna have a helluva shiner there, tomorrow."

Jim doesn't reply. In fact, he seems distracted, and doesn't even make a fuss when McCoy sprays the antiseptic on his hands, even though the doctor knows that it stings like a son of a bitch. Jim's gaze lands on the bourbon, and his eyes crinkle a little at the edges.

"You drink too much, Bones."

"Yeah, well, you whore around too much," he retorts. "Difference is, though, they can grow me a new liver. But if yours ever falls off..." He gives Jim a meaningful glance.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Use it or lose it, that's my motto."

He falls silent, and the only sounds in the room come from McCoy's occasional directions and the crackling when he opens the sterile packages and tosses the empty wrappers into a growing pile on the floor.

"Give me your hand. No, no, the other one," he orders. "Hold still, this'll only hurt for a minute."

Jim obeys without complaint as he sits on the bed, staring out the window at the city lights. This reticence is unusual for him, but McCoy thinks about the last couple of weeks, and how much more than their ranks and assignments have changed.

Life goes on, like that old song says, but a world has died and in some fundamental way he hasn't quite grasped yet, this has changed everything. Since returning to Earth he has sensed a new wariness bordering on paranoia everywhere he goes, and it makes his heart heavy. It's evident from the armed security in the spaceport, to the hotel and restaurant staff who pay him more scrutiny than he's ever merited before, to the talk show hosts who shrill on about the evolutionary basis for xenophobia, and the politicians who divide their time between reassuring their constituents and scrambling to draft more stringent immigration legislation. Surely Jim has seen this, too, and he supposes there's no reason anyone should be immune to the effects of this new reality, but something about that theory doesn't feel quite right.

So he talks just to fill the silence. "How are the folks?" After the pomp and circumstance was over and shore leave was granted, Jim had packed up his bags with grim determination and traveled to Iowa with only a curt, "See ya."

"Mom's fine."

McCoy lets that one slide for now, because now seems the perfect opportunity to get something off his chest. If everyone else has had to grow up a little lately, then it's about time Jim did, too.

"This has to stop, you know. You can't keep going out and starting bar brawls like a street kid anymore. Things are different now. For one thing, starting tomorrow, you've got a whole ship full of people looking to you for leadership and guidance."

Jim can't turn his head to look at McCoy, because he has a firm grasp on it, but he manages to slide his gaze over, and even under the swelling and bruising the doctor can see the indignation in his expression.

"I didn't start this one." He sounds like a child.

"That's not really the point, and you know it. Why do you think you keep doing this, anyway?"

"Oh, are you gonna play shrink with me now, Bones? Did Pike put you up to this?"

"No." But it's interesting that Jim would ask, and just as he opens his mouth to say that, Jim jerks away from him.

"Hey, you know what, old man? Maybe you should work on your own problems first. That reminds me--how was your visit with the ex and Joanna? Does she call you Daddy, or do you have to pretend to be a long lost uncle? Does she even know who you are?"

McCoy grips a wad of bloody gauze in his hand and stares in shock at his friend, his heart thudding and his hands suddenly cold. "You leave my little girl out of this. Don't you ever--" his voice rises and he sticks his finger in Kirk's face "--_ever_ talk about her like that again. You've gone too far with that one, asshole."

Before Jim mutters a curse and looks away, McCoy sees something there, an emptiness that he's seen all too much of lately, but not in Jim, never in him. The little voice in his head tells him to _slow down, think about this, it's not really about you and you know it_, but Jim has ripped open an unhealed wound, and he feels as though the pain of it has transported him outside of himself and he is watching this from a distance, unable to stop what has been set into motion.

"Bet you didn't have anyone to stand up for you when you were growing up, did you?" He knows he should be appalled at the viciousness in his voice, but it's too late now. "Is that what you're hoping for when you go out there looking for a fight? Do you fantasize about someone like George Kirk showing up to rescue you one of these days?"

Kirk shakes his head slowly but still won't meet McCoy's eyes. "Leave me alone, man. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about." His voice is flat, beyond malice or any other emotion, but that only fuels McCoy's anger.

"Or maybe you're looking for that bastard your mother married. You think you deserve getting the shit beat out of you--"

"You don't know anything about Frank--" Kirk dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "Truce, okay? Let's go downstairs and get a drink, or you can pop open that bourbon--"

"I've seen the scars on your back, Jim. I know everything I need to know about him."

"Yeah, whatever." He stands up. "That's enough. I've had enough of you for now. Tell you what, I'll go get another room so you can sit here and wallow in your self-pity all night if you want, without keeping me up."

McCoy blocks him from moving to the door. "I'm not done with you yet."

All he means, really, is that he still needs to close up that cut on Jim's forehead, because just as suddenly as it came upon him, the rage is gone and now he's had enough of this too, he's tired of carrying more than he should lately, and he's ready to knock back the whole goddamn bottle, if necessary, to make the craziness in his head stop.

But there must have been something in those words, or the way he said them, that meant other things to Jim, because he freezes, and his muscles tense, and before McCoy can jump out of the way--even drunk and injured, Kirk is faster than he is--he takes a swing at McCoy that makes his nose crunch and he has to brace himself against the table to keep from crashing against the wall. Without thinking, he pulls back to land a straight jab square in the kid's stomach, because really, his face is already messed up enough, but in the instant before he lets go, he sees something he can't believe, he can't quite process at first because it doesn't make sense that Jim would just stand there with his eyes closed and that resigned, expectant look on his face.

"Fuck." He drops his fist as a sickening wave of horror and shame washes over him and makes his voice weak. "No, I won't do that. I'm not gonna hurt you, kid."

Jim still hasn't moved or opened his eyes, and he doesn't seem to be breathing, doesn't even seem to be here in this room any more.

"I may not be your dad, but I'm sure as hell not Frank, either." He's unsure where he can touch that won't make this worse, but he places his hand on Jim's shoulder as gently as he knows, and still he flinches, but it's this, more than McCoy's words, that draws him back from wherever he was.

He steps away from McCoy and gives a short bark of laughter. "No, you're right. Frank...Frank never did anything halfway. And believe it or not, he could drink you under the table." He's trying for sarcasm but his tone doesn't match his words, and besides, McCoy knows better than most what lies beneath it.

"I'm sorry, Jim." That's not what he wants to say, but he suspects Jim isn't yet ready to hear the narrative going on in his head, so it will have to do for now.

"I don't need your pity." Although the words are harsh, they don't quite cover up the trembling in his shoulders from the sobs he won't release, because that's where Jim is right now, and he has to respect that. Fine, he can put his shrink hat back on later.

"Good, 'cause that's not what I'm offering you. This is compassion, and the fact that you apparently don't know the difference makes me even sorrier. Now come here, I need to take care of that cut."

He doesn't sit, not yet, but his shoulders relax, because they're back in familiar territory now. His eyes widen when he finally looks at McCoy.

"You're bleeding."

"No shit." He gingerly feels around his nose and gags a little on the blood seeping down his throat. No doubt this will keep his staff supplied in gossip for at least a shift or two, and he considers how he will explain this to Chapel when the swelling goes down and he needs her help with it.

"Get me some ice." His voice is muffled because he's bent over with his nostrils pinched shut, but Jim is already at the bar, digging in the freezer. As McCoy settles the compress on his face, Jim watches him in silence, and it's a heavy silence. McCoy waits him out.

"Bones. I...I didn't mean to..." He trails off. Apologies don't come easily to him, because he has learned that they tend to create unbearable obligations.

"Forget about it. Really." McCoy looks up after a few minutes and with some apprehension releases his fingers. He blinks a few times, then picks up his dermal regenerator. "Now sit down and shut up. I can't do this while you're talking."

After he finishes sealing the laceration and puts all of his supplies away, he reaches for the bottle and steers Jim to the sofa that faces the balcony, snagging some glasses from the bar on the way. He pours drinks for both of them.

"Was he there?"

"Who?"

"The bastard."

"Yeah."

Well, that explains a lot. "Nothing like going home to make you feel nine years old again, huh?"

They sit in silence while McCoy pokes around in his own head and tries to figure out just what went wrong tonight, or if it was wrong after all. But he can't stay focused on it, and eventually files it away to revisit later, when he doesn't have a broken nose, heart, and friend to contend with all at once. Below them the lights from the bridge and the marinas shimmer and ripple across the bay, and he finds the motion soothing, almost like being rocked, so unlike watching stars streak by at warp.

"Tell you what—next time we're back here for shore leave, we'll both go to that place you were talking about a while back...what was it? Yosemite? But," he taps his glass against the arm of the sofa for emphasis, "I ain't climbing any rocks with you, you understand?"

This earns him a small half-smile, but at least it's real, and he's encouraged to see a hint of the familiar cockiness in it. He wants to reassure him, but the words will only ring hollow tonight, and he knows it.

Better to stick with something safer for now.

"Do you have a first officer yet?"

"Nope."

"You asked for Spock?"

"Yeah." He laughs uncertainly. "But why would he give up the opportunity to torture a while new class of cadets, just to jump on a starship for a few years?"

"Why? Well, Uhura for starters. She's asked for the comm officer position, right?"

Jim thinks for a moment. "You think he'd follow her? I'm not sure what's going on with those two."

McCoy is sure. "I think," he says slowly, "that Uhura will do whatever she damn well pleases. And I don't think Spock will stay behind. But he's gonna make you sweat it out--mark my words, he'll show up at the last terrifying moment tomorrow."

"Maybe. I've approved Chekov to stay on, too. I'm surprised--someone told me he wanted to go back home, but he put in for tactical. And Sulu's staying at helm."

McCoy is pleased, and not surprised. "You have a good crew, Jim." He says this with confidence, and doesn't see the glance that Jim gives him because he's busy stifling an enormous yawn. The glass dangles loosely in his hand and his eyes are all but closed. The combined effects of the flight--always an ordeal, even when he takes a sedative--and the time change, compounded by a splitting headache, are catching up with him.

"Bones."

"What." He grumbles, but only half-heartedly, since he can't summon the energy to open his eyes now.

"I'm glad you're coming." It's so soft he thinks he might have imagined it.

"Wouldn't be anywhere else, kid," he says, or maybe it's only in his head, as sleep finally wraps its soothing arms around him. He doesn't even feel it when Jim slips the glass from his hand and rests his head against him, and finds home.


	6. Icing on the Cupcake

The rec room is lively tonight, which pleases McCoy. He picks out familiar faces among the crowd: Sulu and Chekov are having a fencing match, and he can tell Sulu is trying not to hold back; Scotty and Keenser are sharing a bottle of scotch, hunched over a low tabletop display of what looks to McCoy's unpracticed eye to be engineering schematics, and they're dragging and rearranging the images while having a rather one-sided argument. Uhura and Rand and Chapel--his heart skips a beat when she catches his eye and gives him a secret smile--are all watching something on a holovid that seems to involve lots of crying and kissing. He shudders at that and quickens his pace because there, in the corner, sits Jim Kirk, all by himself, looking a little forlorn as he stares at a PADD in his lap.

"Jim."

"Mmmm."

"Jim."

"What is it, Bones? I'm busy."

"Not too busy to be checking out Rand's ass. Yeah, I saw that. And she did, too."

"Yeah, and I saw you checking out Chapel. You've got to work on that goofy grin. Not cool, not cool at all."

_Touche_.

But he knows exactly why the captain is here. Besides Rand's ass, that is. He leans down to whisper in his friend's ear.

"Guess what? I'm your new excuse for being here. You and I are now officially having a discussion about ship's business, so there's no need to keep staring at that PADD, pretending you're working while you're secretly longing to jump into that swimming pool like any other crewman, when you know you can't do that anymore because you've gone and made yourself the freakin' captain."

Jim places his PADD on the table in front of him and glares up at his CMO. "Fuck off, Bones. And for your information, I really was working. Until you interrupted me, anyway."

McCoy flops down on the sofa next to Kirk and puts his feet up on the table. "Oh, yeah? Prove it." He slides his own bottle over in front of Jim.

Jim picks up the PADD and waves it under McCoy's nose. "Personnel requests and reassignments."

The doctor snorts and does a passable impression of Spock's eyebrow trick, which Jim ignores.

"I'm struggling with this one, though."

McCoy peers over at the PADD. "What's that?"

"I'm putting Cupcake in for a transfer--he doesn't know it yet--and I can't figure out which reason to choose on the form. There's no checkbox for 'He's a fucknut whack job.'"

"Cupcake--?? Oh, yeah, him." He pauses, and narrows his eyes. "You know, it's funny that you would mention him. He's down in sickbay right now."

Jim's face becomes unreadable. "Oh? Nothing too serious, I hope."

"Well, actually, it is. He's convinced that the computer in his quarters is talking to him. And not the way it's supposed to. More like...well, let's just say it's not exactly being friendly."

"Ah. He's hallucinating. Or is that a delusion?" Jim nods. "Either way, you're right, that does sound pretty serious, Bones. I'm sure you'll provide him with the best of care until he can be transferred to a more appropriate facility, though."

McCoy stares ahead and takes a sip of his drink. "Mmmhmm. Hallucination, for the record. Here's the thing, though: Spock checked out his computer and found nothing wrong with it. But there's nothing wrong with him--Cupcake, that is--either. Organically, I mean. These sorts of things typically show up on brain scans, you know, and there's nothing there. So I'm beginning to wonder if maybe something else is going on."

"Like what?" Jim furrows up his brow and puts on what McCoy has come to recognize as his Best Innocent Angel look.

"Well, while Spock was checking Cupcake's terminal he mentioned to me that he's also noticed an interesting trend in the main computer search function lately. Lots of anonymous queries about how to create remote AI bot programs and adaptive computer-based personalities. So I, being the curious man that I am, wondered if there might somehow be a connection."

"A connection," Jim repeats, and after a fleeting look of panic crosses his face he manages to look astonished. "You think--you actually think someone might be messing with Cupcake's computer? To make him think--?" He turns a reproachful stare on the doctor. "That's a serious allegation, Bones."

Bones sighs. "Jim, just tell me if I should dial back the antipsychotics. 'Cause if he doesn't really need them, they'll mess him up pretty quick."

Jim clears his throat and looks off in the distance for a long moment. "You could probdably do that, Bones. Yep."

McCoy has to push down the urge to reach over and smack him upside the head. That wouldn't do, not in front of all of these shiny, new subordinates.

"And?" the doctor prompts.

"And I'll...I'll take a look at his computer later. I'm sure if there's something wrong with it, I can fix it. No problem." He nods and pours himself a drink.

"And?"

"And?" Jim looks taken aback. "_And_? There's more? What?"

McCoy shakes his head.

"_What_, Bones? And I--" Jim stops, a horrified expression on his face. "I apologize?" he whispers.

"No, Jim, of course not." McCoy rolls his eyes. "For once, that is _not_ the right thing to do. Not if you value your captaincy."

"Okay. Good." He thinks for a moment, then groans. "Help me out here, Bones."

McCoy gives him a pitying look. "And _then_ you delete that file--" he points at the PADD, "and start a new one."

"I do? I do." He taps his stylus against the arm of the sofa. "Because I want him to go somewhere, anywhere...no, not just anywhere. Where do I want him to go?" he muses, and looks up at the ceiling, arms behind his head. "Any ideas? What are you staring at, Bones?"

The doctor tips his head toward the low table. "Those two. That's who I'm looking at. Now that they're here, seems to me that there might be an outpost on Delta Vega in dire need of some security, what with all the draculas and whatchamacallits. I wonder if those things like cupcakes."

"Drakoulias. And hengrauggi," Jim says automatically, then looks at his friend with new respect. "That's evil, Bones."

McCoy sips his drink again. "I'm just a country doctor, Jim. I don't have an evil bone in my body."

"Well, I love it. I love you, but I'll kill you if you ever repeat that. Off to Delta Vega for Cupcake, then." His expression turns thoughtful. "You know, I think this is going to work out just fine."

A slow smile spreads across McCoy's face. "Yep. I think you're right, kid. You're gonna be just fine."


End file.
